


Shining Star

by EnsignAdano



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Astronomy, Coming of Age, Gen, I'm so sorry, Prequel, School, Spaaaaaaaaace, Starfleet Academy, University, and if that doesn't interest you i don't know what will, but hey that should serve as an incentive to keep reading!, most of the tagged characters don't actually show up until the last chapters, space, there's a briefly-mentioned oc who stuffs legos up people's noses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-06-23 16:52:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19705498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnsignAdano/pseuds/EnsignAdano
Summary: Pavel Chekov is three years old when his mother leaves a space program on in the living room.He is seventeen years old when he is assigned to the Enterprise.This is the story of everything that happens in between.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a few years ago, inspired by my feelings of angst and loneliness from being a grade-skipper myself. Chekov has always been my favorite Star Trek character; imagining him has often given me strength when I felt like I was friendless, and exploring the background I'd invented for him for the purposes of this fic gave me a new perspective on the character. That, plus the fact that this is the longest fic I've ever actually finished (thus far), make it a good first fic to post to AO3!
> 
> Cross-posted to Wattpad under the same username, albeit with slightly different formatting. Special thanks to all those who have read, voted, and reviewed via Wattpad, including @im_a_crazy_dreamer, @luckyslulu, and @ZoeMcQueen96!

Pavel Andreievich Chekov is three years old when his mother, flustered and absentminded, accidentally leaves a space program on in the living room.

He watches the screen with fascination—this is unlike any of the animated shows on the children's channel that he usually watches. He doesn't understand all the big words the narrator uses, but her voice—speaking in measured, calm Russian—soothes him. And he understands enough of what she's saying to know that the images on the screen are stars. Actual stars. He had no idea they were so big, and so many different colors! When his mom came back in, realized what little Pasha was watching, and quickly reached to change it back to the children's channel, he begs her to leave the "star show" on.

That night, he toddles up to his window and looks up at the stars dotting the night sky. Could there really be big, flaming red ones and tiny, hot blue ones? They all look white from here.

Maybe someday he'll go up to a star and see it for himself, he thinks sleepily to himself as he climbs into bed.

* * *

Pasha is four years old when he opens his final birthday gift of the day: a book. A book with SPACE printed on the cover in big block letters, right above a picture just like one he saw in the star show that day—a cloud of gas, blue and green and purple with a tiny red dot at the center.

A real, grown-up book. He knows how to read, well enough to comprehend most of the picture books in his local library—but this is different. This is real. He spends the rest of his birthday sitting on his father's lap, sounding out the bigger words. _Supernova_. _Spacecraft_. _Galaxy_. He learns that the thing on the cover of the book is called a _nebula_ , and he reads about how stars are born and how they die. He didn't know stars had lives, just like humans. He thought they were just there, forever. He even learns that the sun is a star—so, in a way, he has seen a real star up close!

He learns about the Space Race and the very early days of space exploration (the first man ever in space was from Russia, just like him!), and traces the journeys to the stars all the way to the Starfleet vessels of today. He'd seen ads for Starfleet occasionally and sometimes watched ships taking off from the shipyard near his house, but never really knew what the organization _did_ until now. He reads about not only the planets in his own solar system, but also extrasolar planets and the races that live on them. It brings him solace to think that as he looked up at the stars at night, there were probably other people on other planets looking up at his star, too.

Within three months, he can read the big words with no problem, and he reads the space book again and again. He practically has it memorized, cover to cover, and when he doesn't understand something it says or wants to find out more about a topic it brings up, he asks his parents to look up the explanation, then memorizes that too. Strangers often stare at the little curly-haired boy in the shopping cart who enthusiastically spouts facts about neutron stars and black holes.

His parents quickly pick up on his love and, without fail, get him more space-related items for each successive birthday and New Year's. A child-sized NASA shirt. A small telescope. More space books, which he devours. His mother even crochets him a little doll of one of the old astronomers, Carl Sagan, after seeing how absorbed Pasha is in learning about his life. Pasha and the Sagan doll are practically inseparable.

_Our Pasha is so smart,_ his parents say to each other sometimes when they think he isn't listening. _He'll have no troubles in school. He will be just fine._

If only that were true.

* * *

Pasha is five years old when he is sent to school for the first time. It isn't actually a primary school like the older kids go to—just a kindergarten to prepare him for real school next year—but it's more like a real school than the daycares his parents sent him to before, so he's excited anyway. He carries a blue backpack, his favorite color, filled with pencils and markers and paper and a matching blue lunchbox. His first real backpack, just like the older kids wear!

His parents take what seems like a million pictures of him in front of his new school. They are smiling and crying at the same time. He doesn't really understand why. But his teacher is really nice, and they start the day with coloring, which he enjoys.

And then the teacher gathers them around on the carpet for story time. "This story takes place on a planet called Mars," she says in her crisp, clear voice. "Can anyone tell me something about Mars?"

Pasha's hand shoots up. He knows all about Mars! The teacher lets some of the other kids go first, and they say things like "Mars is red" and "I have an uncle who lived there for a while." Then she calls on Pasha, and he begins to recite everything he knows about Mars—how it's the fourth planet from the Sun, how it has the tallest mountain and deepest canyon in the Solar System, how it looks red because of the iron on its surface reacting with oxygen.

The teacher never interrupts. She looks too shocked—no, not exactly shocked, awestruck—to interrupt. She waits for him to finish, and then nods a little weakly. "Very good, Pavel."

Pasha beams with pride. And then he hears it: a whispered word in the back of the room.

_Freak_.

He's never read that word before. But he has a sinking suspicion it doesn't mean something good.

* * *

Pasha is six years old when his teacher calls his parents in for a meeting.

It's a cold September day, and he shivers a little in his jacket. He walks into the school building with his parents, clutching his dad's sleeve with one hand and his Sagan doll (which is practically falling apart from all the times he's played with it) in the other. He's terrified. What will the teacher do to him? What did he do wrong? A few weeks ago, after his classmate Mikhail had stuffed Legos up another girl's nose during play time, he had heard that the teacher called Mikhail's parents in for a meeting. Since then, the boy hadn't been seen in the classroom at all. Will that happen to him? Will they kick him out of school? At the thought, he squeezes Sagan a little bit tighter.

The teacher looks cool and composed as she greets his parents and then leans down to shake his hand directly. He expects the four of them to go to his classroom like they always do in the mornings, but instead the teacher leads them to a big conference room with a huge oak table and chairs he practically has to climb into. He feels like he's sitting on a throne. He sits Sagan down next to him and then looks up expectantly at the teacher.

"As I am sure you know," she begins, "your son Pavel is exceptionally gifted. I have had the chance to observe his capabilities both inside and out of the classroom, and what I have seen is very telling.…"

She goes on, describing the things he's done in the classroom, but Pasha focuses on that one word, gifted. What does she mean by that? He had been gifted with a model train set and some new coloring pencils last New Year's. But somehow he doubts that's what she means. He stares at the wood table and tries to count the boards between him and the teacher, but keeps losing track before he can finish.

"For these reasons," the teacher concludes, "I am recommending that Pavel skip kindergarten and go into primary school early, effective Monday."

Pasha snaps to attention at that. _Skip kindergarten?_

There is a long period of silence following this news. Finally, his father breaks it by saying, "But he's so… _young_."

"He is six years old, yes?" asks the teacher, looking a little impatient.

"Yes," Pasha says, feeling he should input something of his own. "I turned six one week and four days ago."

"There, you see?" says the teacher. "Six years is the standard age for entering primary school. Pavel won't be too young at all."

"But we were planning to let him stay a year in kindergarten and then be one of the older first graders," his mother explains. "We have to take his emotional maturity into consideration, yes?"

"Children's brains are extremely versatile, Mrs. Chekov," the teacher replies. "They can mold to any situation, like little balls of clay. Pavel will easily be able to adapt to the first grade classroom. Besides, he will be bored if he stays in kindergarten. He is already showing signs of stagnation."

_I am?_ Pasha thinks. He didn't think he was bored.

Both his parents look at him, concerned. His mother puts a hand on his shoulder. "Pasha, do _you_ want to do this?"

He thinks about it. He likes kindergarten a lot. He likes the other students, and drawing on the little easel in the corner of the classroom, and when the teacher reads stories. But isn't it a good thing that they want him to move up to primary school? That means he's smart. Right? And is the teacher right about his brain being like clay? He's never thought about it like that.

He looks from her, to his dad, to to the teacher, all waiting for him to make a decision. Even Sagan looks like he's waiting.

Finally, he sighs and tells the truth. "I don't know."

That weekend, there's a lot of frantic arguing in his mom and dad's bedroom. A lot of pacing and phone calls and searches on the computer. They try to talk in hushed tones so Pavel won't hear. He can if he wants to—maybe by pressing the toy stethoscope from his doctor's kit against the wall—but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want them to argue, especially not about him. He doesn't know what he wants to do. He doesn't know how this choice will change his future. He just tries to tune them out as he plays with his model train and reads his space books.

Finally, one Sunday afternoon as the family is eating lunch, his mother tells him, "Pasha, you'll be going to a different school tomorrow. And the days after that. You won't be a kindergartener anymore. We've placed you in primary school, which means the lessons will be harder and the kids will be a little bit bigger. But I think you can do it. Do you understand?"

He looks at her for a long time before answering. "Yes, Mama."

Then he goes off to play with Sagan.

* * *

Pasha is seven years old when he graduates from primary school.

Even when he was put into school early, the teacher recognized that he was gifted—there was that word again, _gifted_ —and passed him off to another teacher in a higher grade. Who at least had the good grace to teach him the whole year before summer came and he was passed off to another teacher. Who taught him for half a year, made him take a test, and then passed him off to _another_ teacher. Who couldn't pass him off to any more teachers because he had reached fourth grade, the highest grade in his primary school. There was nowhere left to go.

So he'd lived out the second half of his second year in school amongst a bunch of kids three years older than him. And now he is graduating with them all, getting ready to go to middle school. Basic general education, as it is called in Russia.

He wants to be proud of himself—he's accomplished in two years what most people do in four!—but instead, it just feels weird. Especially at the graduation ceremony. The other students are laughing, talking, chatting. Some of them are even hugging. And him? He is just there, in the middle of it all, observing. On the outside looking in.

Of _course_ none of the fourth-graders have ever wanted to hang out with him, he thinks. He's a _baby_. A baby who gets every answer right in class, which can't help on the popularity front. Plus, when he barely spends six months in each grade before being bumped up to a higher grade, it's a little hard to make friends.

He sometimes wonders what it would be like if he hadn't skipped so many grades. To the other people in that first grade class, he had come and gone in a heartbeat, as if he had never really been there at all. Like little Mikhail who stuffed Legos up people's noses.

"We're so _proud_ of you, honey!" his mother says, engulfing him in a bear hug as his father hands him a bouquet of flowers.

But he doesn't feel proud of himself. He just feels wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued!
> 
> When I posted this to Wattpad, I formatted it with one chapter for every year of Pavel's life. But I thought it would work better on AO3 if it had longer chapters, so I've broken it up into only 5 chapters this time, albeit with the same content. The next chapter will consist of Pasha at ages eight and nine. Don't worry, those individual parts are more substantial than the individual parts in this first chapter! :)
> 
> Reviews/constructive criticism always appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

Pavel is eight years old when he decides he's going to make a change.

It's been a month or two since he started his basic general education, and still no one has talked to him. He doesn't even have the same people in his classes now as he did in the graduation ceremony—it was decided that he could skip fifth grade _entirely_. He is in sixth grade now, surrounded by eleven- and twelve-year-olds.

And he's decided that, if he's going to keep bouncing through grades like this, it's not going to get any less awkward trying to talk to people. So he may as well try!

He squares his shoulders and looks around the cafeteria, venturing past his usual otherwise-empty table near the double doors for the first time. He's already chosen a group to try and join—one that sits at a table near the center of the cafeteria and that is made up of both boys and girls. It doesn't seem too exclusive or cliquey, and the people don't seem like the type to pressure him into doing drugs or other things his parents always warned him against. He takes a few deep breaths and walks over to the table, lunchbox in tow.

"Hi," he says. He had meant for it to come out cool and confident, but instead it sounds breathless. Nevertheless, he clears his threat and forges ahead. No backing out now! "I'm Pavel. I was wondering if I could sit with you guys?"

The boy sitting closest to him, who has sandy blondish-brown hair and a smattering of freckles, looks him up and down. "Hey, I know you. You're that really smart kid. The young one."

"Uh, yeah," Pavel says. _Smart_ and _young_. Those two adjectives basically describe how everyone sees him. He wishes they'd see more of him. Well, now is his chance.

The boy who had scrutinized him looks over at his friends, who shrug, then looks back at Pavel and nods. "Sure, I guess. If you want."

Pavel's heart swells with joy, but he tries not to show it. _Cool and confident, remember?_ Instead, he tries to give them an easy grin as he hops up onto a chair. "Thanks."

The boy nods again and then returns to talking to the other kids about something unfair that someone named Ms. Romanoff did to him in an algebra class earlier. "She told me my work was immature. Can you believe that? _Immature!_ Just because I doodle on my papers sometimes doesn't mean my work is bad…"

"Well, it does detract from the lesson a little," says a girl with wavy blond hair and glasses.

"Okay, so then I draw pictures of x's and y's and equations and stuff in the margins, like she's lecturing about, just to see what she'll do, you know? And guess what? She _still_ said it was immature. _Plus_ she seemed to think I was insulting her or something. She takes everything so personally!"

"She's so unfair," agrees a girl who has short brown hair with a streak of electric blue going through it.

Pavel listens, trying to find a place to insert his opinion. He wants to tell Sandy-Haired Boy that doodling in class probably isn't the best idea anyway, but that might get him expelled from the table, and he can't risk that—not after he's come this far. Besides, he admittedly doodles in the margins of his papers too. And he has no idea what this Ms. Romanoff is like. He's never had her—he has Mr. Litvin for algebra. Evidently everyone else knows how unfair she is, though.

"I just want to quit the class," the boy is complaining, "but then I won't be able to take Programming next year."

Pavel wonders if he should take Programming, if he'd fit in with these people better if he did. Then he remembers that he hates programming.

"Who teaches that class, anyway?" asks Blond Hair.

"Mrs. Minkovski, I think," Pavel says. He doesn't just think—he's committed the teacher directory to memory—but he figures people might find him weird if he instantly knows the teacher of a class he's never taken.

Everyone at the table stares at him for a second. "Dude, I forgot you were even here," says Sandy Hair, laughing a little awkwardly.

So much for not looking weird.

"Oh!" squeals Blue Streak, turning back to the others. "Remember we were learning about programming last year, at that study session at your house? And then your brother walked in and we were all like..." She pulls a crazy facial expression with her eyes crossed and her tongue practically touching her nose, something Pavel would never be able to reproduce even if he wanted to, and the rest of the table laughs.

"And the award for Most Maniacal Facial Hair goes to..." a boy with curly black hair intones in a very bad British accent, and everyone else starts cracking up again. Pavel watches silently.

"Life is like a donut!!" says Blond Hair, giggling madly.

"Your _pants_ determine your fate forever!" says Sandy Hair.

They had officially entered the realm of in-jokes. Pavel sighs, getting up from the table—predictably, none of the other kids notice. He can tell when he's not needed. He'd try again tomorrow, at a different table. After all, isn't that what good scientists did? Try different variables? His experiment was inconclusive. That's all.

That's all.

He spends the rest of lunch in the library, buried in books where he can understand every word and he is always welcome.

* * *

Pavel is nine years old when he makes his first real friend.

Sure, he has some sort-of friends. Like Avijit, his lab partner in science. They don't talk a lot about things other than the assignments, but between them, they get the work done just fine. Or Anna, whom he sits next to at lunch. He saw her sitting alone one day and joined her on a whim, but they didn't really have much in common, so they've just spent every lunch period sitting next to each other doing their own things. Still, though, it seems to work out well. But he's never had a _real_ friend—someone he can actually talk to, laugh with. Until he meets Valentina.

It's the last day of his first marking period of seventh grade. His history teacher has decided to rearrange seats again—most teachers just have desks in rows, but the history teacher says she doesn't like things to stay the same for too long, it bores her. It's only been six weeks, and the desk arrangement has changed about eleven times. Not that Pavel is complaining. When he walks into class and sees the desks are pushed together into groups of two, he shrugs and finds his seat. He wonders who will sit next to him—who his partner will be.

As the classroom slowly begins to fill up, he finds out the answer. The person who sits down next to him is a tall girl with brown hair framing her face and gold hoop earrings swinging with each movement. She smiles at him and immediately sticks out her hand. "Hello! I'm Valentina. What's your name?"

She's said six words to him, right off the bat, without any mention of his age. (Or his short stature. Or his curly hair. Or his baby face.) Pavel takes this as a good sign, and he extends his hand as well. "I'm Pavel. It's nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too!" she says. Pavel can practically hear the exclamation points in her words. "I like your shirt!"

"Thank you." He looks down at his shirt—blue with the logo of his favorite movie series, Battles for the Cosmos, on it. "Are you a fan?"

"Am I?" she gushes. "I _love_ that series! My older brother introduced it to me and now I'm kind of obsessed. I think that now I know more about it than _he_ does!" She laughs. "So who's your favorite character?"

"Um, I like Minerva," Pavel says. "She's really smart. She can think her way out of anything."

"Yeah, Minerva's awesome!" exclaims Valentina. "But my favorite character has to be Xavier. Those fencing moves!"

"It's just a great series, all around," Pavel says, smiling. "Even though the science isn't very accurate."

"I know, right?" Valentina replies. "Every time they say, 'oh, we have to escape the bad guys by flying into this black hole,' I die a little inside."

"Exactly!" says Pavel. "I think they're confusing black holes with wormholes—but come on, if you fly into a black hole, you have much bigger problems than escaping the bad guys!"

Valentina laughs at that. Pavel notices that her whole face lights up when she laughs. "Yeah, if people regularly flew into black holes, Starfleet would have a _much_ higher death rate."

"I actually live near the Starfleet shipyards," Pavel says. "I watch the starships take off sometimes. It's really cool knowing that we can fly through space. That it's not just a fantasy."

"Yeah, I think it would be cool to work for Starfleet someday," replied Valentina. "One of us could be the next Captain Heracles. Or the next Minerva or Xavier."

Just then, the bell rings for the start of class. As the history teacher walks in, her heels clicking against the floor tiles, Valentina smiles at Pavel. He smiles back as he opens his history textbook. He has just made a friend! A real friend! What would they talk about next? He wonders what her next class is and if it's close to his chemistry class, so they can walk together and talk about _Battles for the Cosmos_ and…

His reverie is cut short by the loudspeaker crackling to life. "Will Pavel Chekov please come to the guidance counselor's office?"

His heart sinks. Getting called to the counselor's office can only mean one of two things: something bad has happened to his parents (not likely) or, in his case, he's going to have to take another test to be bumped up into the next grade (more likely—it is the last day of the marking period, after all). Which means he's going to leave his blooming friendship with Valentina. He'll have to start all over again.

As he gathers his things and leaves the classroom, Valentina waves at him. He manages a wave back and a weak smile.

While taking the test that will put him into eighth grade, he tries to get a few answers wrong to throw off his score, just to stay in seventh grade a little bit longer. To see what this "having a friend" thing is like. But he knows in his heart that it's no use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I completely made up Battles for the Cosmos -- I meant it as an expy of Star Wars or Star Trek, in the sense that it's a sci-fi series that preteens could conceivably like/wear T-shirts of/bond over. I have no idea what sci-fi series kids would actually watch in Trek canon -- I hope it's acceptable that I made something up!
> 
> Also, I've decided I'm splitting this into six parts, not five -- I'll be adjusting the chapter numbers accordingly.
> 
> As always, reviews/constructive criticism always appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

Pavel is ten years old when he completes his basic general education.

He spent the rest of last year in eighth grade, then all of this year in ninth. He has found it weird to pass by the Programming Clique or Valentina (who is usually surrounded by a gaggle of giggling girls and doesn't notice him) in the halls and think that he's in a higher grade than them, despite being younger.

Highlights of middle school: His five-minute friendship with Valentina. Oh, and the time in sixth-grade science when they learned about astronomy. They got to take a field trip to a Starfleet shipyard (not the one near his house, a different one), and it made Pavel think about his old Carl Sagan doll, sitting on his bedside table. He wondered what the old astronomers would think if they could see what discoveries were being made today!

Lowlights: The time in eighth grade when he had to take a required "Health" class. Pavel believes it should be a criminal offense to put a nine-year-old who's barely hit his growth spurt yet in a room full of acne-ridden, hormonal thirteen-year-olds and make him watch a video about the Wondrous Changes That Happen to Your Body.

One thing that's not exactly a highlight or lowlight, but that's always kind of bothered him, is the way his other classmates see him. He's well-known across the school, but not exactly in the sense that he has a lot of friends. It's more that everyone knows who he is: Pavel Chekov, the Russian whizkid. And because of that, they have all sorts of _expectations_ for him.

Like, at the end of a class period, if they've had a test, whoever's sitting next to him will lean over and hiss, "What did you get?" If Pavel got a hundred, the other person will nod and say something like, “Wow, you’re so smart,” or “Lucky! I only got a…” Then they’ll say their score and the interaction will end there. But if he got less than a hundred, then suddenly it becomes this big news event. Everyone in the surrounding desks will be saying things like, "Pavel got a ninety-two?" "Isn't he supposed to be the _smart_ one?" "Oh, man. If _Pavel_ couldn't crack this test, then imagine how _I'm_ gonna do on it!" Or, if Pavel hands in his homework and there's one question skipped, either because he had too much other homework or he just didn't see the question nestled there at the bottom, everyone in his general vicinity is shocked at how Pavel skipped a question. Pavel, who's known to give five-paragraph answers to questions that only require five sentences.

And every time that happens, it bothers him. A lot. Why can't he just be a normal student, without his grades being some sort of "smart kid" benchmark? Can't he just have an honest conversation about a difficult test with friends who will acknowledge that yes, he found it difficult, and no matter how many times he's been labeled as the "smart kid," it's not a crime to find something challenging or to do a less-than-perfect job?

But, whatever's happened in the past few years, it's all over now. His final examinations have been taken, his textbooks returned to their classrooms, his yearbook signed (mostly by teachers, but that's better than nothing). His career as a student in basic general education is complete. And he has a whole summer stretching ahead of him.

He spends his vacation in the library, reading science books voraciously and destroying the Summer Reading Program in three days; at the Starfleet shipyards, watching ships take off; and sometimes just in his own bedroom, reading or working on his computers, lost in his own little universe. It's idyllic. His summer is turning out perfectly.

That is, until—without warning—his mom and dad load him into the car a month before school starts and drive him to the front office of his new secondary school.

As he walks into the office, he's reminded of that one day when he was six, when his teacher recommended moving him up to primary school. The day that got this whole confusing grade situation started. He may not be holding his Carl Sagan doll or clutching his father's hand today, but he is just as apprehensive. Are they going to get him to move up another grade? Or have him skip secondary education altogether and move straight up to university? Neither thought is very appealing, but as it turns out, neither is true.

The woman who meets with them has bright red lipstick, disconcertingly bright for her face, and is wearing a perfectly pressed business suit. She gives Pavel's mother and father a firm handshake, but doesn't bother to give Pavel one. She leads the three of them to her office, which is void of decoration save for a multitude of awards on the walls and a brass nameplate that proclaims her to be _Anastasia Nikolaeva, Director of Secondary School No. 362._

"So," Mrs. Nikolaeva says, "I understand we have a veritable prodigy in this room." Pavel blushes a bit at this. "Mr. Chekov's grades are exemplary, and he appears to have been at the top of all of his science and math classes in middle school. And all this at the age of nine."

"Ten," Pavel corrects. "And I will be eleven in September."

She frowns at him, but does not correct her mistake. "Your son is extremely special," she goes on, "and it is evident that he needs a specialized course of education throughout his time here."

"What do you mean, _specialized?_ " asks his father.

Mrs. Nikolaeva shifts the stack of papers in front of her. "What we have proposed is this: Mr. Chekov will not go to the same classes as everyone else, or have a schedule like the other students. After all, you must understand, he is so young, and secondary education is different from basic general education. The older students could…influence him. Torment him. They could—"

"All right, all right, we understand," his father interrupts impatiently. "So what will Pavel do all day?"

"He will undergo a specialized path," she says, "under the supervision of one of our gifted teachers. He will be in a classroom apart from the older students and receive individualized, one-on-one education at his own pace."

"Apart from the other students?" his mother exclaims. "What about his social health? He needs friends. He needs a _normal_ experience."

"You do realize, Mrs. Chekov," she says, "that not every school district would be willing to make such accommodations at all for a student as young as this. You should be very grateful that Pavel has been able to go this far in the first place."

"I realize that," his mother counters, "but he can't just be put in quarantine all day like a museum oddity."

"We are _not_ putting your son in quarantine!" Mrs. Nikolaeva shoots back.

Pavel shifts uncomfortably in his seat and tries to recite the Fibonacci sequence in his head. Really loudly.

"Mr. Chekov will be able to interact with other students during lunch and field trips," Mrs. Nikolaeva is explaining.

Pavel's mom turns to his dad. "Listen to this— _interact._ As if our son is some sort of oddity in a zoo exhibit." She swivels back to Mrs. Nikolaeva. "He needs more than interaction once a day! He needs friends! Real friends!"

"Tell me, Mrs. Chekov," the woman retorts, "how many friends is he going to make skipping through grades like a game of hopscotch?"

Pavel hates to admit it, but she's right.

"He needs a normal life," his father says. "Like what you and I had in secondary school, like what everyone has. Friends, school dances, study sessions, first kisses. How is he going to get any of that with a curriculum like this? How will he have a normal experience?"

"Would you rather have a _normal_ son, or Pavel?" Mrs. Nikolaeva says.

His parents fall silent at that one. Pavel switches from the Fibonacci sequence to reciting perfect square numbers. _One, four, nine, sixteen, twenty-five…_

Mrs. Nikolaeva takes a deep breath and shuffles her papers again. "We have decided that Mr. Chekov will undergo classroom instruction under the supervision of our gifted education specialist, Mrs. Brezhneva. This instruction will take place in the gifted classroom in the C wing of the school. Normally there would be other students in the gifted class with him, but he is the only one this year." His parents fume at that, but don't say anything. "Your son will cover the entire tenth grade curriculum—and perhaps eleventh grade, if he can fit it in—with Mrs. Brezhneva. Required courses that she cannot teach, such as health, will be taken through the computer. This arrangement offers more intellectual freedom for him, so he can focus more on his interests and complete projects to his liking, and will also allow him to work at his own accelerated pace."

It sounds good on paper. But Pavel is still confused about how it will actually turn out in practice. And he doesn't like Mrs. Nikolaeva talking over his head, like he's not there.

_One hundred forty-four, one hundred sixty-nine…_

After a long discussion about his future and his schedule and his curriculum—with only minimal contributions from him—he and his parents pile back into the car and head home. The ride is mostly silent, with each of them digesting this new information.

Later, once they are all home, Pavel approaches his mother in her bedroom, taking off her makeup in front of her vanity mirror. "Mama," he ventures, "why did you get so mad at that woman? I didn't really like her either, but still."

She looks at him for a long time.

"Because, Pasha," she finally says, putting her hand on his cheek, "your father and I always knew you were intelligent, but we never thought your school experience would separate you so much from everyone else. I know you're learning so much, and I know you can get through this…but I just want you to be happy. That's all I want, Pasha." She sniffles a little. "And the truth is…I'm worried for you."

She spreads her arms out for a hug, and Pavel practically melts into her embrace.

_I'm worried, too._

* * *

Pavel is eleven years old when he has to decide where to go next.

His year with Mrs. Brezhneva has been fine. In fact, he quite likes her. He was expecting it to be lonely being the only student in her class, but in reality, it has offered the two of them them more freedom to do what they want. If it's a nice day, they can sit on the hill in the back of the school and have their lessons there. If they need to go to the library, they go to the library. And if Pavel already knows something in a lesson, they can skip it. Two days a week, they have "English-only" days, when neither of them are allowed to speak any Russian. (Pavel hates speaking English—he can read and write it just fine, but his mouth can never say English words right, so he mixes up his v's and w's, and his th's sound more like z's. It frustrates him to no end, but Mrs. Brezhneva just laughs gently and corrects him until he gets it right.) As Mrs. Nikolaeva had predicted, they complete not only the tenth grade curriculum that year, but the eleventh grade as well.

He and Mrs. Brezhneva have grown quite close, in fact. He loves the discussions they have after finishing a book, the way she insists on his doing math problems step by step instead of just plugging them into a computer program—"otherwise, you will never truly _understand_ what you are doing," she says—the way she explains concepts in physics and chemistry so anyone can visualize and understand them.

One day, they're talking through a question on his science homework and he mentions, in passing, a star going supernova, when Mrs. Brezhneva holds up her hands. "Stop, stop, stop. Why is it going supernova?"

"Erm," Pavel says, "because it's dying?"

"Yes, yes, we all know that. Why is it dying?"

Pavel racks his brain. "Because, um, it has run out of elements to fuse in its core? It's gotten to elements that are too heavy to fuse, so it implodes. Right?"

"Why does it fuse elements in its core?"

Pavel squints at her. "Don't you know this already? I mean, you are teaching it to me, right?"

"Yes, I know this," Mrs. Brezhneva says. "I want _you_ to know it, too, inside and out. You can't just memorize facts. I want you to know the _why_ , so there are no holes in your knowledge. Now. Explain it to me like I'm five years old and I don't know anything about stars. Make me _understand_. Why do stars fuse elements in their core? And why can they not fuse heavier ones?"

That session is torture. Pavel has to work his way through layers and layers of muddled knowledge, and no matter what he comes up with, Mrs. Brezhneva still has a "why" question waiting for him. She absolutely will not take "I don't know" for an answer—whenever he says that, she just wordlessly hands him her Padd and makes him research until he has a real answer. Pavel's brain is fried by the time he goes to lunch that day. And yet, he has to admit, he does know the life cycle of stars inside and out now, better than his space books could ever teach him on their own. He feels like he truly understands. Maybe Mrs. Brezhneva was right—maybe that was worth it. And that's why he loves her.

At times, of course, he feels a little lonely. He has to admit that when the only times he sees other students are during lunch, when they happen to be in the library at the same time as him, and during the occasional field trip, it gets a bit desolate. He wonders what it would be like if he had been in normal classrooms. Would he have friends? Would he have a first kiss, like his dad said?

Probably not. But it's nice to imagine.

One day, when he is walking back to the gifted classroom after his lunch period, he overhears a conversation between two people behind him: "Yeah, when you get into honors classes you don't have to work as hard," one of them says. "They go so much easier on you, as if you've already proved you're smart 'cause you got a high score on some stupid test. So you just get to sit back and relax all day while the rest of us work. _How_ does that make sense?"

The other kid nods in agreement. "Exactly. And, you know what, especially the gifted program. My sister was in it last year, and basically you get to play games all day and do whatever you want. She always said it was to 'enrich her learning experience' or whatever, but we both know that's a load of crap."

"They have it so easy," says the first kid. "I bet _I_ could get into the gifted program if I wanted to!"

"I heard there's only one kid in there this year. Wonder how he's doing in there," the first kid says sarcastically.

Pavel wants to whirl around and argue. To snap that he's worked _really hard_ to get where he is, and that he's sacrificed having friends for getting ahead academically. But he doesn't. Because the truth is…he does find it easy. He _does_ play games, and the teacher _is_ really accommodating, in order to "enrich his learning experience." Is it _supposed_ to be hard? What if he isn't learning anything at all? What if he's a fraud?

He tentatively brings this up to Mrs. Brezhneva later that day, as they're playing a trivia game about the early years of the Romanov dynasty to study for Pavel's upcoming history exam. "Mrs. Brezhneva, do you think that this class is a little too…fun?"

She snorts. "It's _supposed_ to be fun. _All_ learning is fun."

"I know, but…" Pavel looks down uncomfortably. "I heard two kids talking today. They said the gifted program is too lenient on us, that we have it easy. What if they're right? Maybe I haven't earned this."

The buzzer in the trivia game goes off, indicating Pavel's failure to answer the question. He gestures to it, as if it proves his point.

Mrs. Brezhneva turns to Pavel and looks him in the eyes. "Pavel," she says. "You have been given an amazing gift, and you should not be ashamed of any way that you use it. Think about it: you are doing tenth and eleventh grade work at age eleven. An age where most students would be in sixth grade. And at this level, your learning is supposed to be fun, because you're going at your own pace and you're committed to it from the bottom of your heart. You should be incredibly proud of yourself, Pavel! Don't listen to those students!" Her voice softens, and she takes Pavel's face in her hands. "Never underestimate yourself. You are going to do great things."

Whenever he feels sad that year, he tries to repeat her words in his head.

At one point near the middle of the year—when Pavel has finished his tenth grade final exams and is just beginning the eleventh grade curriculum—Mrs. Brezhneva offhandedly mentions that he should consider applying to a university. Moscow State would be an excellent choice for him, she says, although it's always good to have multiple options. He nods as if it's nothing and gets back to his work, but inside he is freaking out. Apply to a university? Now? College has always seemed like a million miles away, and yet here it is, staring him right in the face.

When he mentions this to his parents that night, his father just nods and his mother quickly changes the subject. This, he knows, means they are deeply concerned.

Later that night, while passing by his parents' room, he hears his mother pacing the floor and muttering, "Too young…he is far too young." But they let him apply anyway, because what other choice do they have?

He and Mrs. Brezhneva look over his applications together—her with approval, him with some trepidation. His academic transcript is flawless—perfect grades in all subjects. But under "extracurricular activities," he had put "none"; there simply hasn't been time. And his Moscow State essay…The topic had been to write about your greatest fear. Pavel had turned in some generic stuff about death, even though he knew what his _real_ greatest fear was—failure. Failing a class, failing a task, failing a person, failing himself. And since he had never done that before, it would make it all the more devastating the first time he did, so he was desperately working all the time to make sure that ever happened.

But of course, he couldn't turn that in for his college essay. If they knew he was so neurotic, they'd never let him in. (Or maybe they would. Argh! Pavel didn't know. Was applying for college supposed to be this frustrating?)

Whatever he turned in, it has evidently worked. He and his mom read the letter together: "Congratulations, Mr. Chekov! You have been accepted to Moscow State University." His mother's eyes widen at the news, and she puts a hand in Pavel's curls. He knows she's worried…but then she smiles down at him, and her pride beams through every pore.

When he reads the letter again to Mrs. Brezhneva the next morning, tears are practically filling her eyes. "I knew you could do it," she whispers.

Overall, the year has been great. He will miss Mrs. Brezhneva when he has to say goodbye to her, and it will undoubtedly be awkward being one of the youngest—if not _the_ youngest—freshmen on campus. But he has to admit, he is looking forward to college, to talking to other astronomy majors like he will be. And he can't help wondering what it will bring.


	4. Chapter 4

Pavel is twelve years old when he learns what college brings.

It's a lot different than he expected. One thing he likes is that he gets to choose what time he takes his classes. Of course, as a freshman, he doesn't have as many options as the upperclassmen—but still, it's nice not to have to wake up at some ungodly hour of the morning every day.

But college is also a lot _more_ than he expected. More freedom, more work, more expectations. More time between deadlines—more time to procrastinate with the due date looming over you.

Fewer friends. His parents had spent a lot of time regaling him with tales of their university days, telling him that college was going to be the time he formed lifelong friendships because he was going to be with people who shared his same interests. (In fact, college was where they met each other.) But so far, that hasn't really worked out. Every time he tries to strike up a conversation with a classmate, his face goes red and his palms start to sweat and he starts thinking of all the ways it could go wrong. _They could laugh in my face. They could ignore me. They could secretly have been transported here from an evil mirror universe and they'll pull out a knife and kill me._ And in the end, he decides it's not worth it and goes back to his work.

Other students in his classes go to parties and drink vodka and go on dates; he holes himself up in his room and buries himself in articles on warp core drives. He hates himself for it, but he can't help it.

He must look pretty desperate, because one day in his calculus class, a guy sitting behind him leans over and whispers. "Hey, kid, what'd you get for number four?"

He frowns. It's the first time anyone's voluntarily chosen to talk to him all year, unprompted, and he answers warily, without making eye contact. "I, er, I got log 343."

The guy cocks his head to the side. "How did you get that?"

Pavel pushes his Padd towards him. "Well, first you have to cancel out the exponents using…" The guy nods in all the right places during his explanation—although, from his look, Pavel kind of suspects that it's going right over his head—and copies the answer down on his Padd without asking anything more. "'Kay. Thanks."

_It's okay,_ Pavel thinks. _He'll figure it out. He just needs some help._ And in any case, people in this class ask their friends for help and talk through problems all the time. Although Pavel can't help but wonder why this guy chose _him_ to ask.

A few minutes later, the professor starts to ask people for their answers. For question four, she points to the guy, who straightens up in his seat and says confidently, "Well, first I canceled out the exponents using the property of…" He goes on like this, eventually arriving at the final answer of log 343.

_You didn't do that,_ Pavel thinks. _I did._

He doesn't say anything. But privately, he begins to worry that he's being Rosalind Franklin-ed.

He first learned about Rosalind Franklin in a biology class when he was nine. She was the first person to take pictures of DNA under a microscope back in the twentieth century. But then two scientists named James Watson and Francis Crick looked at the pictures she took and determined the double helix structure of DNA. And then they got the Nobel Prize for that discovery, and they were credited in science textbooks as the people who discovered the structure of DNA, even though all they did was piggyback on what Franklin discovered. What did Franklin get? Nothing. At least, not in her lifetime.

He admires Rosalind Franklin. A lot. But he doesn't want to succumb to the same fate as her.

Which he tries to remember the next day, when the guy leans over to him _again._ "Hey," he says, "what's number two?"

Pavel tries to remember Franklin—and the fact that this guy is his Watson and Crick—as he frowns at him. "The process to solve it is on slide 5 of the presentation, if you want to look at that." And with that, he turns away, silently congratulating himself.

But the guy is persistent. "Okay," he says. "What's the answer?"

"I'm not going to just _give_ you the answer," says Pavel.

"So you don't know it?"

"I do know it," he says, irritated. "But you have to figure it out for yourself."

A grin spreads over the guy's face. "C'mon, don't look at me like that. I didn't mean anything by it. You're smart, you must know the answer. Just give me it."

"No," says Pavel, turning away for the final time.

"Hey. C'mon. Give me the damn answer."

Pavel tries to ignore him as he works through the problems on his own.

"Fine," the guy says. "I thought you were the _smart_ one. I guess not."

The familiar words grate at Pavel's ears. "It's ln 42!" he yells. "Happy now?"

The other guy leans back with a self-satisfied smirk as he types the answer into his Padd. "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

_Yes, it was,_ Pavel thinks. His face is burning, and he hopes the guy doesn't notice. And his mind is basically on high alert from the exertion of asserting himself to that guy. He doesn't know why it took so much mental energy—it just did. And the worst part is, now he only has, like, five minutes to complete his _actual_ work.

He swears to himself that he'll hold out longer next time. He won't allow himself to be Rosalind Franklin-ed again.

Which would be all fine and dandy if he could help it. But the guy is persistent. He continues hounding Pavel to give him the answers over the next few weeks and months, always resorting to personal insults when Pavel refuses to cave—"Not so smart after all, huh?", "Can't even help out a friend when he needs it", "Guess you're not ready for college after all, huh, kid?"—that is, when Pavel refuses at all. Sometimes, he's just too tired to go through a whole new battle of wits with the guy and just gives him the answer, hoping he'll just leave him alone. Which he sometimes does, but sometimes he just goes down the whole worksheet, asking Pavel for all the answers, always having a new personal comment ready. Pavel never knows what kind of mood he'll be in, and it's exhausting trying to guess. And no matter what, whenever the professor asks the guy for the answer, he always takes full credit for it.

But there's a strange, emotional side of Pavel’s brain that actually feels _special_. It takes pleasure in this strange manipulation. It thinks, _This person chose me to ask. He's the only person who's voluntarily talked to me this whole semester. There must be something_ important _about me._ And all the while, the rational side of his brain is banging pots and pans together and screaming, _He's taking advantage of you!_ But the emotional side isn't listening. The guy is passing the class with grades he didn't earn, and it's all Pavel's fault. He's not even strong enough to just flat-out refuse the guy. He's weak and he's pathetic and he hates himself for it.

So the next time the guy asks him for an answer—"Hey there, friend! Any chance you've found the answer to the problem about the satellite's orbital path yet?" - he snaps.

"Listen. We both know you're not going to give me any credit for the answer, even if I did tell you. We both know you're not really my friend. You're only pretending to be. But you're really just taking advantage of me because I'm smart, and I'm young, and you think that makes me an easy target. But I'm not going to be an easy target for you anymore. I'm not going to let myself be Rosalind Franklin-ed. So leave me alone. Please."

His hands are shaking and his voice has gone up an octave and his face is so red that it feels like it's on fire. Tears are welling up in his eyes and he doesn't know why, and he's choking up a little but he wishes he wouldn't because it makes him sound like even more of an easy target. He faintly registers the expression of shock on the guy's face—god, he's never even bothered to learn the person's _name_ —and hears that the entire class has fallen silent at his words. Great. As if he needed any _more_ attention.

Before he can stop himself, he does something he's never done in his life. He gathers his things and walks out of class, straight to his dorm. And once there, he lies facedown on his bed and says nothing more.

That was a mistake. He's sure of it. He shouldn't have done that. The entire class will be whispering about it. He's wanted people to know his name, know who he is, but not like this. He can't even bring himself to feel any pride at finally standing up for himself to the guy—especially not when it entails walking out of the class altogether. That's just an escape. Exactly what a weak, pathetic person like him would do.

University is sucking so far. He wants to go home. He doesn't know why he ever thought this would be a good idea. He wants to stay in bed all day, all week, all year—but he knows, at the bottom of his heart, that that's not a viable solution. No matter what, he's going to have to go back to that stupid calculus class sometime. And he'll have more work, more assigned reading, more papers, more tests. And once he finishes that, once he works his butt off through the wee hours of the night to get his A, what's his reward? More work, more tests. 

It never ends. It _never ends._ Once he's done with college, he'll either have to get a job or go to a higher-up university somewhere to get his master's degree or his Ph.D. or whatever. And that's just more work. More stress. And he might not even get _credit_ for all his work. He might just get exploited, taken advantage of, because he's so young. So what's the point? What was the point of coming here at all?

He shouldn't even have all this stress anyway. He's _twelve_. Most twelve-year-olds are in seventh grade, playing with Nerf guns and watching _Battles for the Cosmos_ and discovering the fact that romantic attraction exists for the first time. And where is he? In university, getting way more stress than it's worth. He just wants all this to be over.

And for the rest of the day, Pavel lies on his bed and cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry to end it on such a sad note! Originally, I planned to have this be two years of Pavel's life, but I figured that this ending was a better stopping point for this chapter. Consequently, this story will be 7 chapters as a whole (instead of the originally planned 5!), and the next chapter will also be just one year. It's also a little shorter than this one. Don't worry, though, it ends more happily!
> 
> Thank you so much for your kudos and your kind comments so far! As always, reviews and constructive criticism are always appreciated.
> 
> LLAP, my friends!


	5. Chapter 5

Pavel is thirteen years old when he has an epiphany.

The guy in his calculus class hasn't bothered him since his outburst, and he spent the rest of that semester sitting in a different seat as far away from him as possible. He doesn't even see the guy anymore. But something has changed in him since that day. When he went to class the day after his crying jag, he didn't feel embarrassment, or guilt, or dread, or anger. He didn't feel overwhelmed at the prospect of more work, papers, tests. He felt…numb.

This feeling has persisted over the past few semesters. He doesn't care about his schoolwork anymore. He does it, he turns it in, and he flies through university with a 4.0 GPA—but he can't bring himself to feel pride at that. He's going to graduate soon, and he still has no idea where he's going to go next or what he will do with the rest of his life.

Why did he ever choose to major in astronomy anyway? He thought the stars were so cool when he was a little kid, but now they're just another source of stress, another page of equations. Why does traveling to the stars require so much math? So much physics? So many hours of his head spinning with numbers, feeling like it's going to explode? Where is the feeling of wonder he used to have as a kid?

One day, after a long three-hour session of "writing a paper" for his Stellar Cartography course—i.e., staring at a blank screen on a word-processing program and waiting for the words to come—he decides he's had enough. He closes the program without saving and opens up a new window on his Padd. He needs a break. He needs to remember why he's here, at thirteen—what fueled his love of the stars in the first place.

It takes a bit of searching, but he eventually finds it. _Cosmos: A Journey Through the Stars._ Apparently the original version of the show was made in the 20th century by Carl Sagan—the same Carl Sagan that Pavel used to play with in doll form—and numerous other versions have been produced through the years, hosted by all manner of astronomers. The latest version was hosted by a cosmologist from Earth named Elena Lopez and has been dubbed in 183 languages, including Russian. Pavel pulls up the first episode and starts watching.

He can't help but smile. This is not the _exact_ episode he watched as a toddler, the one that first got him hooked on space, but he still remembers the woman's mellifluous voice, and the images on his screen still blow him away.

Lopez is showing him _stars_. Actual stars. Stars that are thousands of times bigger than him, bigger than Earth, bigger than anything he can comprehend. Stars that are constantly fusing hydrogen in their core, shining brightly in the sky. Stars that have exploded to form all the elements that made up his body and his blood and his brain. Stars with planets orbiting them. Stars with _other stars_ orbiting them. Stars like the Sun. Perhaps, as Pavel looked at the stars at night, there were people on other planets looking at his Sun.

_This_ is what those pages and pages of formulae describe. _This_ is why he fell in love with space.

He leaves the video running, Lopez's voice acting as a backdrop, and goes to his window. He pulls back the curtains and smiles. There are so many streetlights outside that he can't really see _all_ the stars, but he can see some of the brightest. Sirius. Orion's Belt. Ursa Major. Polaris. A few satellites cheerily blinking back at him.

_Every star has its story_ , Lopez narrates behind him. _And as we learn their stories, we learn where we came from, where we are going, and what we are now._

Suddenly, her voice is interrupted by an ad. Pavel frowns and goes to shut it off—he _knew_ he should have gotten the video through a more reputable website—when he sees what the ad is for.

_Join Starfleet today, and go where no one has gone before!_

Join Starfleet?

He remembers all those summer days biking to the Starfleet shipyards. He remembers his conversation with Valentina at age nine, talking about how cool it would be to join Starfleet. He remembers staring at the stars before bedtime as a toddler, thinking about visiting them and seeing them up close.

And suddenly, he knows where he wants to go next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, when I decided to split Chapter 4 into two chapters, it looks like I underestimated how short the second of the two chapters would be. Sorry about that! I promise Chapter 6 will be a little bit more substantial.
> 
> As always, reviews/constructive criticism always appreciated! LLAP, you guys. <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! Sorry it took me so long to update (and by "so long," I mean "a couple weeks"...oh well). As promised, here's Chapter 6, and as promised, it's a little bit more substantial than the last one!

Pavel is fourteen years old when he walks into his first class at Starfleet Academy.

He does not feel excited. Yes, he is embarking on what has been his dream since he was a little kid, before he even realized it. But excited isn't exactly the right word for what he's feeling. Instead, he's kind of apprehensive. Well, maybe it's more like nervous. Okay, he's flat-out terrified.

What if the people here are just like the guy who Rosalind Franklin-ed him at Moscow State? (Since he never actually learned that guy's name, he's started to mentally call him James Watson, after one of the two people who dissed Franklin and took basically all the credit for discovering DNA's structure.) He sped through university, thanks in part to all the classes he had tested out of before entering college, and had graduated at the top of his class last year—and man, is he glad to have put that behind him. The last thing he wants is for Starfleet Academy to be more of the same. He tries to convince himself that it won't be—these are the smartest minds in the galaxy, all united under a common passion for exploration, enlightenment, discovery. That's kind of the whole point of Starfleet, and kind of the opposite of James Watson. But there's still that little voice in Pavel's head that keeps whispering, _It will never change. You will always be nothing but a novelty, a tool for people to use and then throw away. Nothing more._ He tries to silence the voice, but he can't. Especially not today.

The shoulder pads in his new crimson Academy uniform (which he had to get in the smallest size—he's tiny, even for his age) weigh down on him. It's a little uncomfortable. He constantly has the feeling of wanting to shrug it off.

As he enters the lecture hall for his first class, Navigational Comp, he looks around. Before, he'd make a beeline for the front row and go straight to the seat in the center, but now he's worried it might make him look overly eager. But he doesn't want to sit in the back, either, lest his teachers think he's a troublemaker. He finally chooses a seat in the fourth row, a little to the left.

There are only a few other people in the room this early: a girl with green skin and hair a million shades of red, staring off into space and daydreaming. An Andorian woman tapping her fingers against the table. (It's kind of annoying, but Pavel just tunes it out.) A short guy with light blond hair playing games on his Padd. Pavel starts organizing his things, then realizes that might make him look like a stereotypical nerd and quickly stops. He ends up just staring at the front of the room, like the green-skinned girl, and tries to recite perfect square numbers to calm his nerves.

He's gotten all the way up to 676 when he hears the loud _thump_ of someone dumping their stuff on the desk next to his. He turns and sees a youngish guy—Asian-looking, with dark hair and a half-grin on his face—sitting down. "Hey, do you mind if I sit here?"

"Erm, not at all," Pavel says.

The guy does sit down. "Exciting, huh? Our first class at the Academy. What are you looking to do in Starfleet?"

"I...I would like to be the navigator of one of the starships." Pavel mentally curses himself. _Vould. Nawigator._ His Russian accent is showing. Not even the English-only days with Mrs. Brezhneva have fully gotten rid of it.

But the person sitting next to him either doesn't notice or doesn't care. "That's cool. Maybe we could be assigned to the same ship." His half-smile expands, becoming full, genuine. "What's your name?"

"Pavel."

"Hikaru Sulu." He holds out his hand, and Pavel shakes it.

He can't help but smile. This man, Hikaru, has friendship potential. Maybe the Academy won't be so bad after all.

* * *

Pavel is fifteen years old when Hikaru shows up at his dorm room with a birthday gift.

It's a crisp September night, and Pavel has the window open to let in the ambient noise of the San Francisco streets below. He's sitting on his bed, working through some assigned reading for his Theoretical Physics class, when he hears the knock.

His relationship with Hikaru for the past month or so has been mostly restricted to sitting in the library together, working on assignments and drinking tea (Hikaru) and hot chocolate (Pavel). They live in the same residential hall—Hikaru two floors above Pavel—and they walk together to their rooms after each study session. Sometimes they talk about their life. Pavel has learned that Hikaru has two sisters, that he was the founding (and only) member of his high school's Botany Club, that he took up fencing when he was thirteen and has been doing it ever since. Hikaru loves to tell the story of when he was in middle school and his sleep-deprived brain decided it would be a good idea to flirt with the cute boy in his English class, except he ended up tripping over his own feet and babbling incoherently about plants when the boy tried to help him up.

In return, Pavel tells Hikaru about Mikhail, the kid who stuffed Legos up people's noses; about his Carl Sagan doll; about Valentina; about the failures of his English-only days with Mrs. Brezhneva. Hikaru seems to think it's pretty cool that Pavel skipped so many grades, but doesn't say anything more. He just takes it in stride, and Pavel loves it.

Sometimes they complain about their classes, the workload. "Don’t get me wrong, I love the stars," Pavel says one day, "but I never realized before that getting to them would be so much _work!_ " Hikaru laughs at that. It feels good to make him laugh.

But it's not like they're talking about anything deep, like they're forging a lifelong bond like the kind Pavel has read about in novels. Their stories are all funny anecdotes, nothing more.

So it's surprising to see Hikaru at the door of Pavel's room. And even more surprising to see what's in his hands—a present, wrapped in blue paper. Pavel's favorite color. How did he remember?

"Hey." Hikaru smiles. "Sorry to barge in, it's just—today's your birthday, right?"

"Yes," Pavel says slowly.

"I wanted to get you something. I hope you like it." He leans against the doorframe and hands the gift to Pavel, who takes it gingerly and opens the paper. Hikaru is a terrible wrapper, but Pavel figures it's the thought that counts.

The present is a planner. More specifically, it's a school planner that has a navy blue cover with 2256-57 School Year embossed in gold. Pavel grins—Hikaru must have been taking him seriously when he jokingly complained about all the work they had to do, and he did always like old-school planners and journals with paper and pen—but when he opens it, he gasps. At the top of each page is a fact about space, in neat gold print. One for every day of the year.

On the inside front cover is an inscription in Hikaru's flamboyant handwriting: _Pavel—Saw this in the store and it reminded me of you. Hope it helps you in your journey of getting to the stars. Happy birthday! Hikaru_

As Pavel looks up, Hikaru grins. "I remember you telling me your birthday was September nineteenth, so I just had to get it."

"This is amazing," Pavel murmurs. "I wish I could thank you. Wait, I need to get you something in return. It's the least I can do. When is your birthday?"

"It's in June."

"Oh." Pavel makes a mental note.

Then Hikaru walks to Pavel's dresser and peers at something on top of it. He laughs a little. "Is this the Sagan thing you were telling me about?"

"That's the one," Pavel replies. The doll is dirty and frayed and practically unraveling after ten years. In fact, it's almost unrecognizable as Carl Sagan. He still loves it.

"'One of the most popular attractions on Mars for scientists and historians is the Carl Sagan Memorial Site,'" Hikaru recites, "'which was established by the Mars Historical Preservation Society at the spot where the 20th-century Sojourner rover finally came to rest.' That's the fact in the space planner for March 11th."

Pavel flips to the March 11th page in the planner and laughs when he sees that Hikaru has recited it perfectly. "How did you memorize that?"

"I have my ways."

"I've always wanted to go to the Sagan memorial site," Pavel confides. "It's probably one of my top three places I'd want to go if I ever toured the Solar System."

"I've been there once," Hikaru replies. "We stopped there on a school trip for a fencing competition."

"Really?" Pavel leans forward in fascination. "How was it?"

"It was amazing."

"Maybe we'll go there someday. When we're both in Starfleet and we get paid vacation time. Or maybe on an away mission or something."

"Yep." Hikaru's smile lights up his whole face. "We'll go there together. On our journey to the stars."

They end up talking the whole night.

* * *

Cadet Chekov is sixteen years old when he finally figures out where he belongs.

The past year has been amazing, to say the least. He's learned so much! It was one thing to major in astronomy at Moscow State, but another thing entirely to be surrounded by people from all over the galaxy who all have the same passion for space and space exploration as he does. He's on track to graduate within this year—going through the Academy in two years is an unheard-of feat. And this time he can actually take pride in this accomplishment, because he hasn't sacrificed having fun or a social life to get it. For the first time, he has friends. Real friends. Friends with whom his relationships last more than five minutes. His heart swells up at just the _thought_ of it. And it's not just Hikaru, either.

One day, when he's sitting outside on a bench doing his Subspace Cartography assignment, he realizes he's been doing his work the wrong way for the past half an hour and lets out a curse in Russian. He sometimes reverts to Russian when cursing or talking himself through problems—he likes it because it's pretty strenuous trying to keep his brain in "English mode" all day, and besides, it's not like anyone will understand him.

Or so he thinks, until he hears a female voice behind him tut disapprovingly and say, " _Language_." In Russian.

He turns and sees a girl with medium-dark skin, dangly red earrings, and long dark hair tied up in a ponytail. She leans against a nearby tree trunk and smiles. "I didn't expect you to have such a dirty mouth."

He swallows. "Um…you speak Russian?"

"I study xenolinguistics," she says. "I speak a lot of languages, Earthen and otherwise. Your Russian curses can't evade me." She takes a seat on the bench next to him. "So what exactly was it that caused that outburst?"

He shows her his Padd. "I just made a mistake and didn't realize it until later."

"Everybody makes mistakes," she says.

"Well, does everybody make mistakes and then do the rest of their work with that mistake as their reference point for half an hour before they realize anything is wrong?"

"Yes, probably."

He smiles up at her.

"I'm Uhura, by the way," she says.

"Uhura." He tries it out. "Is that your first name or your last name? Or your only name?"

"Last name."

"All right then, I'm Chekov."

"Pleased to meet you, Chekov." She holds out her hand, and he shakes it.

From then on, they spend Mondays and Thursdays studying together on that same bench, sometimes speaking only in Russian, sometimes in English, sometimes in a mix of both. Chekov gets the feeling Uhura finds him cute—of _course_ she does, he's a tiny teenager with big turquoise eyes and curls covering his head who takes his studies super-seriously—but she doesn't treat him like a little boy, at least, which he appreciates. She's studying to be a communications officer, not a navigator like Chekov, so the two of them don't have many classes together. But they have some, and that's good enough.

He's starting to realize why he was so mad at the James Watson guy from Moscow State. It had seemed irrational at the time—he hated that treatment, but couldn't articulate why. He didn't have a counterexample. Now he sees. James Watson just asked him for the answers, whereas he and Uhura work together to _find_ the answers. Sometimes he'll start a sentence and Uhura will finish it, or vice versa. Sometimes they'll quiz each other. Sometimes they'll compare notes.One day, as he and Uhura are preparing for a Starfleet History midterm by quizzing each other, Chekov decides to pull a Mrs. Brezhneva on her, asking her why at everything she says. At first, it infuriates her, just like it infuriated him. (" _Why_ did he do that? I don't know, because he _wanted_ to, that's why! Stop asking me!") But after a while, she gets better, and Pavel can tell she understands the material a lot more thoroughly. Of course, it feels slightly less good when, at the next study session, she turns it right back on him. But even so, he loves how it feels to be treated as an equal, not as a tool—not to be treated like Rosalind Franklin anymore.

Sometimes Uhura brings her friend Gaila, an Orion girl with green skin and short, curly reddish hair. They're roommates, and they gossip a lot, but not in a mean way. In turn, Chekov occasionally brings Hikaru—no, he's starting to think of people by their last names, since that's what he's going to call them if they're ever assigned to a ship. He occasionally brings _Sulu_. The four of them make their own little study group.

So, he has friends. For once. And every day, he feels so lucky for all of them, for their support and friendship. But out of all of them, Sulu is probably his favorite. Okay, definitely his favorite. And he doesn't care if it's wrong to play favorites. Ever since that night on his birthday, he and Sulu have started to _talk_ about things. They confess their feelings. They tell stories that are more than just funny anecdotes. They have _in-jokes_ , for God's sake. At one point, during what was supposed to be a study session but has derailed into a conversation about the very first rocket launches, Pavel absently says, “The first rocket launch complex was invented by a Russian, you know.”

Sulu looks up at him from his Padd. “What?”

“Vladimir Barmin,” Pavel replies, recalling the fact from the November 22 page of his planner. “He designed the Baikonur spaceport in the twentieth century. Of course, country borders were different back then, but still.”

Sulu types some stuff on his Padd, then looks up at Chekov again. “Huh. You’re right.”

Chekov frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I dunno, you might want to pretend things were invented in Russia because…” He shrugs. “National pride? Humor?”

“Well, that’s kind of a stupid thing to do,” Pavel answers. “Why not just pretend _everything_ was invented there? This chair was invented in Russia! The whole _world_ was invented in Russia! It makes no sense!”

Sulu laughs. “It doesn’t. But it’s fun to say.”

Chekov has to admit, it feels good to make him laugh. Maybe he can get used to things being invented in Russia.

Their relationship has expanded beyond study sessions in the library and sitting together in class. It's become walking together on campus. Barging into each others' dorms late at night when the work becomes too much for them. Sulu dragging Chekov to his fencing practices. Chekov loves watching Sulu fence, not only because he's amazing at it—he reminds Chekov of Xavier from _Battles for the Cosmos_ —but because when he fences, his eyes light up with passion and he parries and thrusts with everything he's got. He's like a force of nature. He has admitted to Chekov that for him, fencing is a form of catharsis, to work off all his stresses and angers. He once dragged Chekov into the arena and shoved a sword into his hands, urging him to try. But it wasn't really Chekov's thing, and he's pretty much always known he doesn't have nearly enough coordination or reflexes to be any good at fencing—at least, not as good as Sulu. So he's content to watch.

But it feels so _good_ now. To study with not just one friend, but a whole _group_ of friends, sometimes. To have people to eat lunch with. To point at random things, like his dresser or Sulu's tea kettle (Sulu always makes his own tea because he insists that none of the various coffee houses around the Academy make it the "right" way) and say, "You know, that was invented in Russia," and have only Sulu understand the private little joke. To do that thing where he and Sulu look at each other and burst out laughing for no reason—something he's only ever read about in books. He's always wished he had someone to do that with. Now he does. _Finally._  
  
Everything is, finally, falling into place. He has exams and papers and assignments, sure. But he has people who have his back, who will support him: Sulu, Uhura, Gaila, the few other people he's in other classes with whom he talks about assignments and makes jokes. He barely believed himself capable of that a few years ago. And sure, his anxiety is still there, along with the intrusive fantasies of the people secretly being from an evil mirror universe and stabbing a knife through his heart for daring to speak to them. Sure, he still feels overwhelmed by his work sometimes, worried that he won't be able to do it and that he'll let everyone down. But somehow, he's able to silence these thoughts faster now. He has proof that he's strong, that he can do it, that he can be, for once, _happy._ He feels stronger, somehow. More capable. Even the weight of the cadets' uniform on his shoulders has stopped feeling uncomfortable. It feels more warm and comforting now, like an ever-present hand on his shoulder telling him that he's come so far, that he should be proud of himself, that everything is, in the end, going to be okay.

He's finally figured out where he belongs.

And it's right here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I told you the characters in the tags would show up eventually! And even Mikhail-The-Kid-Who-Stuffs-Legos-Up-People's-Noses makes a reappearance! (Though, unfortunately, only in dialogue.) Fun fact: he was based on a real kid in my preschool, who would stuff Legos in her own nose and mouth. Hey, they always say to write what you know!
> 
> And yeah, the next chapter will be the final one, for realsies this time. Thank you so much for your kudos and all your kind comments so far! I can't wait to share the ending of this fic with you.
> 
> As always, reviews/constructive criticism always appreciated. And as always, LLAP!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the final chapter! I know it's short, but I hope it serves as a fitting end nevertheless.
> 
> Enjoy, and as always, LLAP!

Ensign Pavel Andreievich Chekov is seventeen years old when he is assigned to the Enterprise.

He's watching the academic trial of James T. Kirk, whom he's only seen a few times on the Academy grounds. From what he's seen, Kirk practically  _ struts _ across campus, like the whole universe is his. By now, the whole school has heard of Kirk beating the Kobayashi Maru. Well, not exactly _beating_. Chekov got a first-person account of it from Uhura. Apparently Kirk reprogrammed the computers so that the test, which was usually meant to be a no-win scenario, would be overridden and he could win after all. Chekov isn't sure how to feel about that—he knows it's morally wrong to cheat, but he also finds Kirk's actions pretty ingenious. In fact, he almost wishes he had the guts to do something similar.

But the Academy officials don't seem to share those feelings. To them, it's cheating, and that's all there is to it. And so Kirk has been placed on trial, and anyone in the school who's able is watching it.

At one point during the trial, Kirk demands to face off against his accuser, Mr. Spock, directly. Chekov knows of Mr. Spock: an Academy graduate, half-Vulcan and half-human, who takes no nonsense. It's said that he turned down a position in the Vulcan Science Academy to join Starfleet, but the logical side of his personality is evident in the way he calmly  _ enlightens _ Kirk (as Kirk himself puts it).

Chekov is watching the interrogation with fascination, as if it's a tennis match, when it's interrupted by a message. There's a distress call from Vulcan, and one of the admirals instructs all cadets to report to Hangar One.

Chekov's heart leaps. Does this mean he's going to—no, it can't. He's too young, he's barely completed two years at the Academy…

He rushes off to Hangar One anyway with the rest of the cadets, all clad in their crimson uniforms. He scans the crowd, trying to find Sulu or Uhura or Gaila, but can't see anyone.

There's a commander reading off the cadets' names and the ships ro which they have been assigned. Chekov's heart hammers in his chest. As he listens, he manages to find Uhura in the crowd, talking to Spock about something. She has a dour expression on her face, until Spock presses some buttons on his Padd and she looks satisfied. Chekov wonders what that was about. He hopes he'll see her again.

He's jolted back to where he is when the commander reads off his name from the list: "Chekov, USS Enterprise."

The Enterprise!

He can hardly believe it at first. He's been assigned to the Enterprise! Everyone knows that's the top ship in the fleet, their flagship. He's done it. He's made it. He's been assigned to the Enterprise. This is what he's been waiting for, since he was three, even when he didn't realize it.

He just stands there for a second, grinning stupidly, until another cadet nudges him—"Well, don't just stand there," she says, "get to your ship!"—and he takes off.

The ship is every bit as beautiful as he has imagined it: sleek white surfaces, lights shining from every corner, computers programmed with the latest advances in technology. It's also massive—he wonders if he's going to get lost. That would be embarrassing. But he's been assigned as the navigator, and luckily, it's easy to find the bridge and his station on it. He can't help but smile, running his hand across the smooth surface of the navigational console. This is his ship now. His ship. He's going to see the stars up close. If only he could bring Toddler Pasha forward in time and show him this!

As if that wasn't good enough, he sees someone sit across from him at the navigational console:  _ Sulu! _ God, he's so happy to see him here. He'd been worried, in the back of his mind, that the Enterprise would just be a blur of new, unfamiliar faces. That he'd know nobody. Not that he'd have as much trouble getting to know people anymore. But it's still nice to have Hikaru on board.

After a few attempts at getting them to warp—at first, Sulu had forgotten to disengage the external inertial dampener (Chekov recalls Uhura sitting on that bench next to him, reassuring him that everyone makes mistakes), but they finally manage to blast off—the captain, a man named Christopher Pike if Chekov remembers correctly, gestures to him. "Russian whizkid," he says, "what's your name?"

_ Russian whizkid.  _ That's him! That's how he's been defined since he first entered school: the little studious Russian whizkid. He's tried to escape that title before. It led to people taking advantage of him, using him, taking him for someone young and naïve. But now he knows that he is that Russian whizkid, and he is much more.

So he doesn't hesitate when he answers.

"Ensign Chekov, Pavel Andreievich, sir."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap on that!
> 
> Thank you so much for your kudos and all the kind comments! This is basically the first (and the longest) fanfic I've ever written and completed, not counting the times in third grade when I would write and illustrate stories in my journals with titles like "The Diary of Hermione Granger," and I doubt that counts. Anyway, I'm so thankful for all your guys' support and feedback! I've always connected to Chekov as a character, and although a lot of this fanfic was borne of me projecting my angst onto him, I'm so glad that I was able to make him relatable and that you guys were able to connect to him too. (And that I was able to teach some of you about Rosalind Franklin! She's awesome and totally underappreciated, tbh.) Your comments are so nice and they make me so happy to read, and your kudos are also appreciated. So here's a mass "thank you!"
> 
> If you want to discuss anything more about this or just scream about Chekov/Star Trek in general with me, you can find me on Instagram as @startrekdrawing and on Tumblr as mayas--musings (with two dashes). New fic coming soon-ish, if I can ever finish it! It probably won't be Star Trek-related, but that's okay. I'm almost definitely going to come back to writing Star Trek fic in the future -- I love it too much to not do so!
> 
> Once again, thank you guys so much for your kindness and for sticking with me. And as always, LLAP! <3<3<3


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